


Something of a Success

by magikfanfic



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Drugs, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, mentions of the other hargreeves, spoilers for the netflix show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magikfanfic/pseuds/magikfanfic
Summary: Klaus is the first to know.





	Something of a Success

**Author's Note:**

> Didn't tag it because it's not explicit but some mentions of sexual situations. Not between Klaus and Ben. This is not that.

Klaus is the first to know.

He has been deemed, like Vanya before him, unnecessary on the battlefield and left at home to try and make himself useful, which means turning music up too loud and raiding everyone’s closets to pass the time, riffling through any unlocked drawer for money to use for the small drugs he has started to obtain, the only thing that quiets the world of the dead that is all around him, everywhere. He has been deemed unworthy, unpredictable, a liability in the middle of a battle. He is left at home with Mom and Pogo, and the neverending battle to see whether the memories of his childhood or the voices of the ghosts that seek him are worse.

He has been left behind. 

They are already scattering. 5 gone. Vanya is gone. Allison is gone. Diego is hovering on gone. Luther and Ben are left, and Klaus knows neither of them will ever leave. No matter how much he asks Ben to, to come with him, to go somewhere. Together, they might have a chance, out there, but Ben is Ben and Ben won’t leave, though his reasons are different from Luther’s, so Klaus stays, too, even though he is left behind to dance through hallways in the clothes that Allison deemed not good enough to take with her and in Diego’s leather pants.

They are divided now because they are too few, each one sent on separate missions. 

They are barely twenty, but they have been doing this all their lives already, haven’t they? What’s a little more? What’s another day? And what could possibly be too much for them? 

Klaus is the first to know because one moment he is dancing, eyes closed, singing along, and the next he hears his brother’s voice, looks because he thinks his brother is back, his brother is home, they can do something, and finds only the lash of blood across Ben’s face, the stricken look, the panic, the pain. 

Klaus is the first to know, and his screams echo throughout the entire house so loud that even people on the street can hear, but it’s the Umbrella Acamdey and no one thinks anything about it.

He sobs on the floor, curled up in much the way he did in the vault when Father locked him in and refused to let him out. Only no one is yelling at him, no one is fighting for his attention, there’s just Ben’s voice, quiet, always quiet, asking him to stop. Ben still kind and selfless. Even dead.

And Klaus is a shitty brother because he can’t look. He can’t speak. He weeps, hands over his face, unable to explain why when Mom and Pogo find him. 

Then the news comes on, and they all know why. 

Dad puts up the statue, picking the image of Ben that he liked best; a child, perfect, malleable. 

Klaus puts a needle in his arm for the first time, but it doesn’t make Ben fade. It only makes him shake his head, ghostly tears falling that do nothing to wipe away the blood. It’s a bad trip, and Klaus feels like sound scrapes his skin off. Ben is there through all of it.

***

5 is gone. Vanya is gone. Allison is gone. Ben is gone. Diego has finally left. Luther stays. Luther will always stay unless Father tells him not to. Let Father have Luther, Klaus thinks, wrapped in a coat that is too thin for the weather, himself too thin for the weather. Let Father have Luther. Luther will have it no other way.

Klaus himself is a bit like the ghosts that haunt him, hard to pin down, never settling, always high. It’s harder for them to reach him that way, harder for them to talk, to scream, to want, to need. It’s harder for him to want and need, too. It’s easier to fall into the chasm of the drugs. It’s easier to be nothing at all than to be Klaus Hargreeves, professional disappointment. Sometimes, when he’s in his head enough to put the thoughts together, he wonders if this is how Vanya feels, but then he takes another hit and everything melts.

Except Ben.

Constant Ben. Who stays. Even when the drugs roll through his system, even with the booze, the pills, the blunts, the needles. Through all of it, Ben. It’s nice to have someone to talk to when he’s not in clubs pulse pounding with noise. It’s nice to have his brother. Even he can admit that, and Klaus never admits to anything. 

“The blood’s gone.”

“Hmmm.” Ben looks better than he ever did in life, not happy but not worried, not constantly doubled over wondering whether he’s going to displease Father or Luther. Ben looks free. Klaus hates that it took death to do that. 

“The blood,” he lifts a hand, makes an exaggerated gesture around his face and his chest to mime where it used to be on Ben. It used to be a mess, gore, torn skin, weeping wounds. It used to be hard to look at him. It used to make him weep. Every time. Now it’s all jeans and black leather and that hoodie Ben wore when he didn’t want anyone to look at him, even though he should have wanted everyone to look at him. Ben was lovely. Is lovely. They’re all so lovely. Sometimes Klaus wonders if that’s part of being what they are, too, the loveliness. “You used to be just fucking messed up.” Everything has to be a joke. All the time.

“Oh,” Ben is still so quiet. “I didn’t want to be that way. I fixed it.”

“How?” And he knows by the whine of his voice that he sounds desperate, needy, annoying. The others would call him annoying. Ben did, too, but never about that. They never enjoyed calling out each other’s insecurities. “And how are you here? I am fuuuuuuucked up.”

“You’re always fucked up.”

Klaus shrugs. Ben blinks. Ben breathes. Appears to breathe. Fake breathes perhaps just because of muscle memory or so as not to put Klaus off. He doesn’t know. He can’t say. But he appreciates it, the small act of breathing when he knows there is no air there. 

Ben shrugs. “I wanted to not look like that anymore, and I want to stay. Here.”

“With me?” Klaus grins, presses a hand to his bare chest where the coat is open, “I’m touched.”

“My options are pretty limited. Don’t let it go to your head.” But he’s grinning. What he means is, you’re my brother and I love you.

“Bastard,” Klaus says, also grinning, and he means, I love you, too.

***

Klaus might be high and destitute and dirty most of the time, jumping between one fix and another, one lover to the next, whoever will offer him a place to stay and some food and maybe some drugs, but he thinks he’s the luckiest of them, really. He’s never alone. Not even when he’d sometimes want to be. There’s always Ben.

Like now. Even though he’s turned away, Klaus is sure of the look that would be on his face, irritation, a little embarrassment, maybe some envy. “Can you not engage in sex acts when I’m here.”

It’s hard to really focus when there’s a mouth on him, but Klaus is used to replying. “You don’t have to stay right here all the time.” The owner of the mouth looks up at him, and Klaus adds. “No, darling, not talking to you. You can stay here as long as you like.”

“This is fucked up.”

Klaus’ laugh turns into a moan because the mouth knows what it’s doing. “This is not even the most fucked up thing in our family.” He doesn’t need to elaborate. If he started, he’d never stop. There’s too much to even list, and he’s positive that he doesn’t know half of it, doesn’t really want to, either.

“I’ll be back later.” A pause. Ben’s back is still there, black hoodie, black leather. “You could do better, you know.” 

Klaus isn’t sure whether Ben means the mouth or his life. Or both. They have these talks all the time. Ben gets upset that Klaus is wasting everything he can’t have. Klaus gets upset that when he’s sober, people drip from the walls and need him. He’s never been good at being needed. That’s Luther’s kink. 

“He’s not even that hot,” Ben says, walking through the wall, and this has happened enough times for Klaus to know he’ll be back. Ben will not leave him forever, though he worries about it. He worries about it and worries about it and uses more drugs to drive the worry down.

He’s useless with Ben. What will he be without him?

“He’s wrong.” He drags his fingers through the mouth’s hair, and the owner looks up at him again, confused. “You’re hot.” The mouth, occupied as it is, says nothing.

***

Dad dies, and they go home. Well, Klaus goes home, and Ben disappears for a bit, which is somewhat surprising, but he’s allowed. Everyone processes in their own way and Klaus’ is to get as fucked up as possible. 

Ben shows back up in the middle of the funeral, getting there in time to watch Luther knock down his statue, and Klaus winces.

“Rude,” Ben says, and Klaus would be suppressing a chuckle if the entire fucking world wasn’t turning into a shitstorm around him. You’d think he’d be used to it by now but apparently, he’s still got the capacity for shock left in him.

They’re sitting in the kitchen after, and Klaus turns to Ben, the empty chair he always insists remains open despite the strange looks their siblings give him, the cup of tea he always pours even though Ben can’t drink it or touch it but can still appreciate the gesture. Not forgotten. 

“I’m sorry about your statue,” Klaus says even though it wasn’t his fist that did the toppling.

Ben shrugs. “I didn’t really like it.”

Klaus’ arched eyebrows are enough of a question.

“It wasn’t me. I wasn’t,” Ben sighs, more manufactured air, and Klaus wishes he could sling an arm around his shoulders and lean into him. Klaus laments the loss of familial touches of which there were always so few but which he and Ben had each other for when needed. 

“You weren’t what?”

“I wasn’t noble. I wasn’t that. I wasn’t.” Ben is looking at the table, and Klaus is looking at him. “I wasn’t good.”

“Bullshit.” There’s sincerity in his voice. How long has it been since that’s been there?

Ben looks up at him, upset, surprised. Klaus knows. He knows all the emotions that have ever tripped across his brother’s face. It’s not because he’s dead. It’s just because they know each other like that. 

“Bullshit, you were good. The best of us.” Klaus is a liar, full stop, period, but there is nothing untrue about this statement. He cannot lie when it comes to talking about Ben. You were noble.”

“I was weak.”

Klaus presses a hand to his chest, adamant. “I’m weak. You were.” His eyes are wet, and he brushes at his face. “You were too good. You were too good for Dad. It wasn’t fair. You were too kind, and you shouldn’t have been there.” None of us should have, he thinks, been anywhere Dad sent us. He folds his arms on the table and sets his head on them, face turned to look at Ben. 

“I’m sorry about your statue,” Klaus says again because if anyone in the existence of the world deserves a monument, it’s Ben. It’s hard to swallow, hard to see, there’s water across his vision, tears to fall. Father always complained about his crying. “We’ll get you another one.”

Ben forgets to blink like humans do sometimes, leaves his eyes open for disturbingly long periods of time, just watches. “I don’t want to be stuck at thirteen,” he says and his voice sounds tight. Ghosts can cry, Klaus has seen it, ghosts can weep. It hurts him when Ben cries. It hurts most when he makes Ben cry. 

“You won’t be. I won’t let them.” He can make a fuss when he needs to. No one can make a fuss like Klaus. They might not listen to him, they might not take him seriously, they might not believe him, but he can cause enough of a fuss to make sure that the new statue isn’t Ben stuck at thirteen, scared and complacent, terrified of himself the way so many of them were scared of themselves then.

Shit, Klaus still is, thinks he always will be.

Ben smiles.

“Who are you talking to?” Vanya asks, small, quiet, but different from the way that Ben was always quiet. Vanya speaks like she doesn’t know she can make sound, like she’s worried about sound. It’s weird. Klaus has heard her play the violin; he knows she can make beautiful sounds.

“Ben,” he says, smiling at his brother.

“Oh,” Vanya says, and when he looks over at her, she is regarding him with a sort of pity.

He’s high, he knows, so none of them think he’s worth anything, none of them know or believe no matter how much he says Ben is there that Ben is there. 

“I’m here,” Ben says because he knows that sometimes Klaus needs to hear it, and Klaus nods and turns his face down, into his arms. He doesn’t look up again until everyone has left the room.

***

Sitting cross-legged on his floor playing pattycake with Ben is like being five all over again only Klaus can’t remember if Father ever let them be kids enough to play pattycake. All his knows is that he doesn’t get discouraged, no matter how many times his hands go through Ben’s hands because he can feel something. It’s small, just a tingle, but it’s there. This will work. This will work. It has to work. 

He needs it to work. Not just for him but for Ben who looks so fucking delighted that it makes Klaus’ chest hurt with it. How long has it been since he’s seen his brother happy? Have any of them ever really been happy? It’s a question he can’t even answer because a good portion of his life was a lie either constructed by their father or twisted beyond recognition by the drugs. Klaus has so much to make up for, but it’s easy to start here, with this, with Ben. 

Ben who hasn’t ever given up on him despite the fact that Klaus has only ever given him reasons to do so. 

He can feel Ben’s palm against his own. He can feel his fingers. He wants to wrap their hands together the way they used to when Klaus couldn’t sleep because of the whispers of the dead and Ben couldn’t sleep because of nightmares where he turned into a monster. They would sneak into one bed and hold hands and talk about dumb, kid things. Klaus wanted to be a rockstar. He wanted to play the drums. Ben wanted to become an artist, a poet, a baker. 

Ben was always afraid of dying. 

Ben is dead.

Ben is dead, but Klaus can feel his hands against his own as he pushes his arms forward.

Ben is smiling. It feels better than drugs in his system. It feels better than a muddied head and a speeding heart. Klaus smiles back, and he can almost forget the moment, how he knew, and he can almost forget Dave bleeding in his arms, shots all around him.

Ben smiles. Klaus grits his teeth together, determined. When he puts his hands up, they stop right where Ben’s are lifted. He threads their fingers together, the first time he has touched his brother in so many years.

Klaus is crying. It might be the first time in his life he has ever cried from happiness.

“I’m here,” Ben says, and Klaus just nods and hangs on as long as it takes for the touch to fade away under his fingers. When his arms go forward like the air is empty, when his face falls, Ben keeps smiling. “Hey,” he says, and it is gentle, and it is kind, but it is also stern. “I’m still here.”

“I know,” Klaus says.

“Try again,” Ben says.

And they do. And they will. Klaus always will. At the end of the day when there is nothing left except the shrieks of the dead and his messed up family and the drug habit that claws on the inside of his skin like an animal needing to get out, there is one light left. There is one hope. There is still Ben.

Don’t move on, Klaus thinks as he claps his hands together, thrusts them out. Don’t move on. Don’t leave me. “I’m sorry I’m a shitty brother,” he says, and Ben stops moving, tilts his head to the side, sighs.

“You are a shitty brother.”

Klaus flinches, not expecting to hear it repeated back at him even though he deserves it.

“But you’re my brother. Always.” 

“Bastard,” Klaus says, and it means you’re my brother, and I love you.

“I love you, too,” Ben says because he always could. When none of them could, Ben could. Love. Everyone. 

Except himself. 

“Come on,” Ben says after a moment. “You’re not getting out of practicing that easy. Not now. Not when you’ve just started trying for once.”

When their father prodded them, he was mean and cruel and unyielding. When Ben prompts him on, he is hopeful and proud and loving even when he is disappointed, and Klaus has disappointed him so many times and will again. So many times. “Shut up,” he mutters, but he does. He tries again.

And again. 

He’ll keep trying until the end of the world, which ends up being not as far away as he had expected and, surprisingly, something of a success.


End file.
